Risen (45 page)

Velecent let go a roar as he leapt
forward, kicking the table into the surviving men.

Just as Ravan momentarily struggled
to pull the blade from the dead man’s shoulder, Salvatore came up
and over the bar. Sliding on his hip, the Spaniard slid
dramatically down a length of it before leaping off and to his
feet.

It was a fairly spectacular
demonstration and enough to briefly gain Ravan’s attention. It was
that precise moment that bolstered Ravan’s confidence that he’d
found the perfect captain to chase after Risen.

Velecent was by then with Samuel,
both of them managing three of the five remaining men. Two were on
Velecent, one had him by the hair, and he was significantly busied
fighting them bare-knuckled.

Salvatore pulled from his waist a
dagger and let it fly. It stuck brutally into the throat of one of
the men leaving Velecent wide eyed with appreciation as he now
faced only one attacker.

The remaining two enemies were
retreating before the insane barbarian who’d unleashed terror upon
them. Ravan captured one in mere seconds as Salvatore took the
other.

The dark mercenary pinned his
man—the largest of the bunch—to the floor. He pressed his blade
against the man’s throat as Odgar asked hoarsely, “It is you, is it
not?” He coughed, “The boy’s father, the one who defeated
Tor?”

“I am Ravan, father of the boy,
Risen,” he snarled.

There seemed to be a knowing
expression that crossed the face of the doomed man, one that only
comes to someone who stares death in the eye. Even so, Odgar had
nerve as he spat back. “Kill me if you wish, but you are undone.
The boy is sold—gone. Hi ill fate is cast, and you cannot bring him
back.”

“That is something you will never
know,” Ravan replied and allowed the man one final breath before
taking the next with his blade. He drew the knife slowly and with
precision, all the while watching as Odgar embraced his final
regret. Then, brutally and magnificently, it was done.

The group of seven were reduced to a
dead and dying heap on the tavern floor. Salvatore righted himself,
breathing heavily, and retrieved his dagger from the throat of a
dead man.

“You do make an entrance, don’t
you?” he said to Ravan as he stepped over a body, then looked over
his shoulder at the man behind the bar. “My apologies. It’s good we
settled up before all of this.” He indicated with outstretched
arms—as though he were the lead in a performance—the mayhem that
lay strewn on the establishment floor.

Slapping Samuel on the shoulder, the
captain strode past and called back to Ravan, “Time to shove off!
The sails won’t lift themselves!”

Out of the bar the four strode,
given once more to the chase of a boy.

* * *

The ship swept from the harbor as
though it knew the desperate task they were undertaking. Sleek and
swift, her pristine sails were in sharp contrast to the
reddish-black, oiled teak wood of her body. Her captain had spent
nearly eight years gathering and shipping the wood from India, and
she was the first vessel to boast such a frame. Salvatore could not
know it, but his ship would be the precursor to all of the caravel
designs of boats that would be of the Renaissance. For now, it was
simply the best there was of her size. But, of course, Salvatore
dreamed of more. Tonight, all that mattered was that the Red Raven
would chase the slave galliot like no other vessel in the
world.

It was late, and most of the crew, a
few of Ravan’s men, and Moira had settled in for a long night’s
sail. Those of the crew who were not on watch slept in their
hammocks. The soldiers would eventually adapt to these well enough,
lulled to sleep easily after the grueling trek across half of
France.

Moira had the mate’s small room,
while Ravan and Nicolette were offered the aft guest quarters.
Tonight, however, Risen’s parents would sleep very
little.

As the flickering lamplights of
Toulon diminished, the swell of the sea breathed beneath them, and
a trail of moonlight on the waves marked almost the exact path on
which they sailed. Standing on the bow, Nicolette looked as though
a siren had leapt from the sea to peruse her vast, watery
home.

Even Salvatore, his hands
manipulating the ship’s wheel instinctively, could not take his
eyes from her with her dark hair streaming behind her, an ocean
witch to be sure. If he could have seen her eyes, he would’ve seen
her cold determination to have her son back. She would slice
through those who would stop her as easily as the ship sliced
through the waves.

Ravan stepped up behind and wrapped
his arms around her. “How can we know we are going the right
direction?”

He was enraptured by this ship, this
great horse galloping over its ocean pasture. Had fate steered him
another direction, he would likely have made a fine sailor, a
captain perhaps—this he thought to himself. The deck rolled beneath
his feet, and he rode it as easily as though he’d sailed his whole
life. But, it was not enough to distract him from the dread that
consumed his heart.

“It is the right direction.”
Nicolette turned her head, resting her cheek against his chest and
laid her hand upon his arm. “I will tell them if it is
not.”

From his being, Ravan knew this to
be true. “It’s cold and damp up here with the night air and the
spray. Come to bed. Let me warm you, and we’ll face the morning
together.”

But they did not go to bed for some
time. Instead, they looked to the East, to where their son had been
taken. Somewhere in front of them was Risen and Sylvie.

* * *

The wind was in their face at first,
forcing them to tack the boat, which had been a very curious
process to Ravan. However, the wind shifted when the stolen boy’s
mother took to the foremost bow of the ship.

Salvatore remained on deck for some
time, partly because it was where he preferred to be, partly
because it was a superb night for a sail, and largely because
Nicolette was there. He could not take his eyes from her. He
squinted, not certain, but it looked as though on her shoulder sat
a mangy little sparrow.

Now, with the wind off her port
flank, the Red Raven skimmed through the water like a hungry wolf
on the chase. The sails were magnificently full, and they were off
to a very fast start. Some time later, when the watch was
established and the night sky had gone nearly clear, the captain
went below. Some of the crew were still up, and there was an
overall sense of merriment and revelry, for they were sailing, and
their cargo was light and paying handsomely.

There were a cluster of sailors and
most of Ravan’s men gathered aft hull around several secure tables.
The conversation was two-directional, questions emerging from the
curiosity of one to another. Ravan’s men wished to know about the
land they were sailing to, of what a warrior from the east looked
like and the weapons they carried; Salvatore’s men wished to know
more of their leader, his bride, and the dynasty.

“There is none I trust more,”
Velecent answered a question about Ravan.

He was enjoying the camaraderie and
the ale, as were the other men, for there was nothing more to do at
the moment but sail. The boat pitched very little now, rolling
gently as though rocking a baby to sleep.

“And what of his bride? She is a
strange one,” a deckhand wondered aloud.

Salvatore stepped from above just
then, and with him respect could be sensed from all his men. “She
is a hard one to read,” he concurred, having overheard and only too
happy to leap into the conversation. “Like a winter squall,
perhaps. Her husband, however—he, I feel, could be a rogue wave if
you press him just right.”

Velecent nodded. “He has been
pressed already, and I would not want to be the men in his path.”
He sipped from his ale. “It will be very bad for them.”

“He’ll have vengeance, then?”
Salvatore poured himself a draft and sat with his men.

Shaking his head, Velecent said,
“Not vengeance—he will destroy them. They will scarcely have time
to consider their fate if he finds them.”

“I’m glad to be his ally then. We
wouldn’t want to see this side of him, would we?” Salvatore raised
his glass in a half toast and drank deeply.

Behind them, Ravan’s boots appeared
on the deck steps as he came below. All conversation ceased as the
mercenary descended the stairs. His presence seemed to fill the
room, and Velecent and Ravan’s men rose, a gesture of
respect.

Pausing at the bottom of the stairs,
Ravan considered all present in a very calculated way, his eyes
lingering on each man in turn. Gradually, a wave of complete quiet
swept over the group. Someone coughed.

Ravan spoke to all of them. “Thank
you, for taking me to Antalya.”

Salvatore broke the somber moment as
he swept a still half inebriated hand across his crew and toward
Ravan. “There is my friend! Willing to step into a fight and have
my back, he was!”

Ravan regarded the captain
curiously. “I recognized your name in the crowd, had need of your
ship.”

“Oh, come now.” He indicated the
companionship and ale. “We are kindred spirits, destined for an
adventure together!”

“Perhaps at another time. Tonight,
however, I can think only of my son.”

With a polite tilt of his head,
Salvatore conceded. “Yes, then. Let us find this boy first. Then
maybe an adventure, and,” he looked about as though he would see
Nicolette in a hidden space, “where is that lovely bride of
yours?”

This appeared to almost amuse Ravan,
and as if on cue, Nicolette’s gowns showed on the steps behind
Ravan. He extended a hand to assist her as she descended the
stairs.

Speaking to the shipmen, Ravan
introduced her. “My wife, Nicolette.”

Most of the crew had not had the
opportunity to experience the presence of Nicolette first hand, and
so this was a curious moment. She did almost just as her husband
had done, pausing to give each present a thorough evaluation. The
electricity in the air seemed to rise, and for most present, was
very pleasant.

“There she is!” Salvatore exclaimed
and rose to bow deeply, sweeping his arm again to nothing,
really.

Ravan’s expression darkened
somewhat, but he said nothing.

“My husband has already expressed
appreciation for your efforts. You must know that my sentiment is
the same.” She spoke softly to all present.

Salvatore seized the opportunity to
reply for all of them. “We are paid dearly, my lady, and eternally
at your service because of it. But, much more endearing than your
gold is your lovely presence.”

Nicolette said no more only turned
and disappeared as she slipped down the short hall to her
room.

“Join us?” Salvatore offered to
Ravan. “Perhaps discuss our strategy?”

“Keep the ship on a straight line.
It is late, and there will be time enough to discuss strategy as we
sail.” Ravan began to take his leave.

“I would chase her too, given the
choice of company,” Salvatore added hastily. “Please don’t rock my
boat unnecessarily.”

There were nearly audible gasps from
Ravan’s men as their leader froze and glanced over his shoulder. He
almost leisurely faced Salvatore, and the captain saw an expression
yet unfamiliar to him.

The smile faded from the Spaniard’s
lips. “Oh, come now. You cannot be so grave as to not rejoice in a
reunion with your bride. If you have reservations, allow
me.”

What occurred next was a flash of
steel and fury as Ravan crossed the short expanse and drew his
blade to Salvatore’s face. It might have even cut him, but the
captain instantly drew two knives of his own, wickedly hooked and
crossed, holding Ravan’s blade barely at bay.

Ravan’s voice was a throaty hiss,
his face only inches away as he leaned heavily on the Spaniard. Had
he intended to kill him, it is likely he would have. His obvious
intention had been just that, to make his intentions
obvious.

“Speak of Nicolette in such a way,
think of her in such a way, and I will gut you. Know this before we
go any farther, that it is my son for which I agonize, and all that
we do—all that I do—will be with respect and with Risen’s best
interests at heart.”

The Spaniard appeared suddenly
almost entirely sober, and he lowered his voice as he spoke to
Ravan alone. “I needed to know,” Salvatore’s expression was nearly
as dire, his blades crossed right before his nose, “that your quest
was of the most serious in nature.”

This, and perhaps the look on the
captain’s face, gave Ravan pause. He eased up the smallest
bit.

Salvatore added, “We go to a land
not fit for the likes of us, my friend. Ask me to place my men and
ship in such a state of affairs, and I must know that you do it
with all sincerity.”

“I will lay my life down for my
son.”

“And for my men? Would you do the
same for them?”

Scanning the faces of the men as
before, Ravan saw something very different about them this time.
Theirs were expressions of serious loyalty. These men evidently
knew the gravity of the task ahead of them and, like Ravan’s men,
were willing to follow a leader such as theirs into the worst of
it.